8

Philadelphia, United States

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The repetitive noise of the alarm system's countdown marks the seconds before it is triggered. Macmillan enters the deactivation code on the designated luminous keypad and silences the warning chime.

The space, actually a commercial area rented under the pretext of inaugurating a clothing store in a near future, is empty. Only an unfolded stepladder, an open toolbox, and brand new DIY equipment bestow an impression of occupancy in case an unexpected visit occurred. Anyway, it doesn't matter since from the outside, even the most curious onlookers can't be surprised to see this store devoid of merchandise or furniture. A mosaic of newspapers glued to the window prevents prying eyes.

The mercenary, in his black fatigues, doesn't bother to turn on the lights. The diffuse brightness of the security bulbs allows enough visibility, and he blends in like a shadow until he reaches the backroom door. He enters the small dark space, and this time flips the switch. The cold, greenish tint of the single fluorescent light reveals an area devoid of goods. Macmillan pivots a large metal storage cabinet that covers the wall opposite the entrance. Behind the furniture is not a wall, as one might expect, but a reinforced door. He runs his finger over the tiny fingerprint reader mounted along the door frame and waits for the locking mechanism to disengage. He steps forward and crosses the threshold as the heavy door automatically opens.

At the bottom of the raw concrete stairs, the mercenary arrives onto the landing of a vast windowless chamber. In front of him, hung on the wall, four flat screens display closed-circuit video from several cameras positioned at strategic locations in the building.

The room resembles a mix between a chemistry lab and an electronics test bench. A large countertop runs around its perimeter, while a long workbench outfitted with a Bunsen burner and a sink stands at its center. On the counter, computer equipment, measuring instruments, and complex devices sit atop the PVC covering. The well-lit room contrasts with the floor above, and the newcomer has to squint to adjust to the halogens' harsh light.

"Put it there," commands a deep voice.

Macmillan goes to the middle of the strange lab and places the container he's carrying on the workbench. He scrutinizes the narrow back of the one who gave the order without even turning around. From his unkempt white hair, a gaunt neck plunges between his bony shoulders. The discordance between the thinness of this physique and the depth of this voice never ceases to amaze Macmillan. The man's height is impressive. Hunched, he still stands a head taller than the commander, who is already over six feet high.

The mercenary has grown accustomed to the oddness of his albino client and his ways. He thus remains silent, while the other busies himself in his corner, apparently no longer concerned with his presence.

However, after a few minutes, Macmillan can't help but comment: "Are you sure you'll be able to..." He immediately stops, aware of his mistake in speaking without being invited.

The frail giant abandons his task, and the clinking sound of metal hurting metal resonates as he drops his tools. He slowly stands up, towering over the room, and turns to face the mercenary.

"That I'll be able to what?"

Macmillan, tough as he is, swallows hard, which swells the scar on his temple. He doesn't fear his client himself but braces to cross his gaze...

"Open the unfortunate electronic lock protecting this container?" continues the strange character.

The giant now faces him, and the mercenary focuses not to flinch. The bulging and almost entirely white eyes owe their spark of life only to the dark pinholes of the pupils.

Every time Macmillan meets this gaze, he feels as if he's encountering death personified. Macmillan suppresses a shiver. After all, he's seen worse, and quickly recovers.

Oblivious to his operative's inner struggle, the man continues, approaching the workbench: "Do you really think I would have asked you to bring me this if I had not been capable of opening it?"

"No, of course not," Macmillan replies with confidence.

He glares at his interlocutor's prominent Adam's apple to avoid meeting his gaze. With a precise movement, he rotates the box to present its screen to his employer.

"Reinforced container, Mortimer lock with dual card reader and chemical protection," the former soldier reports in a procedural tone.

His host smiles, which gives an almost human expression to his stare by softening the eyelids' hollow and casting some shadow over his diaphanous irises' corolla. "Any attempt at forced penetration triggers the emission of concentrated acid that renders the contents useless," the man recites to conclude.

He runs a slender finger along one of the card reader slots. "Fortunately, far be it from me to use brute force."

Curious, the soldier can't help but ask the question burning his lips. "But how will you open it? The two necessary cards are tamper-proof."

A new smile softens the emaciated face of the albino. "My dear commander. Manufacturing two chip cards is truly not the problem." He slides a drawer under the workbench and pulls out two blank white plastic cards, each adorned with a golden electronic chip. "Getting them to communicate with each other so that they analyze the reader's request and send back the expected response... That's the real challenge."

He places the two keys under the handle of the container before continuing. "But that's just a matter of programming and equipment, after all..."

He returns to his corner along the counter and shortly comes back, holding a small device similar to a portable credit card reader. Two wires ending both in a thin rectangular metallic pad dangle in front. He sticks the two pads, each on a card, to cover the chip. "There's the hardware part."

He inserts the two cards into the container's reader slots. It emits a brief signal, then a red LED blinks, while on the portable device, the display lights up and scrolls alphanumeric combinations. "As for the programming..."

The man removes the cards from the slits. Immediately, the ruddy light goes out. But the device's screen continues to rotate symbols. Until a short beep sounds, followed by another, then a whole series of different high-pitched tones closer together, and finally silence.

Taking the cards in hand again, the master of the place reinserts them into the two slots. This time, the reader emits a long shrill ring, then a green LED gleams, unlatching the container's lock. "... it turns out that's my specialty."

He carefully opens the lid and begins his inspection. A compressed gray polystyrene foam confines and protects six small metal cylinders.

"Compound 235 Bk," the giant declares thoughtfully.

He turns to his henchman.

"Get ready, commander, you're off to Spain immediately. And this time, your approach will be different."

He runs a distracted finger over the six tubes, and as Macmillan leaves, he adds: "Don't forget to set the alarm on your way out."

9

El Formigal, Spain

The clock radio's alarm stops when Paul Rodriguez's hand flops onto the large oval button that sits atop the device.

"Madre de dios, justo unos minutos además," Paul mumbles, covering his head under his pillow.

He worked all night to finish the 3D modeling of a torture chamber for a gruesome video game that will shortly flood the shelves. But, so close to the deadline, he must rigorously supervise his programmers to ensure they integrate the new graphics transferred to the company's server.

He ruminates, sighs, grumbles, then finally sits on the edge of his bed. With regret, he stands up and elongates his naked and sculpted body while yawning. Of average height, Paul's physique is nonetheless imposing. His tanned and coppery skin covers a fit musculature that he maintains diligently. His mid-length black hair, currently loose, frames a thin face where sideburns and a short goatee form precise patterns.

He performs a few stretching movements to relax his limbs and dispel the last fog of sleep, then he opens the heavy curtains wide. The warm sunlight, already high in the sky, ignites the duplex's interior.

In front of him, the majestic shapes of the Pic du Midi d'Ossau expand as far as the eye can see.

Less than three miles from the French border, El Formigal, founded by the Romans for the thermal springs that run through its subsoil, has several magnificent antique constructions. But, even if thalassotherapy still represents a part of this small village's economy today, its integration into one of the largest Spanish ski resorts has become its main driver. The silhouette of hotel complexes and ultra-modern buildings contrasts a bit with the place's ancient past. However the site, summer and winter alike, retains breathtaking natural beauty, as long as one explores outside the tourist attractions themselves.

Paul is one of the rare township's year-round residents, which off-season counts fewer than fifteen hundred souls. Not that he is a native of the land, quite the contrary. A fan of skiing and climbing, his job allowing him to work mostly remotely, Paul enjoys his small foothold. He appreciates both the bustling life of the resort during the high seasons and the absolute calm that reigns between winter and summer. He bought a duplex apartment on the top floor of a building on Juan de Lanuza Street ten years ago. Having his multimedia production studio located in France while being himself domiciled in Spain offers significant tax advantages.

Residing close to his passions, with flexible work hours, represents an ideal situation for this confirmed bachelor. However, he still has responsibilities, especially during the last phase of such an important project. He must adhere to some commercial rules, the least of which is to honor deadlines!

So, after completing his daily physical exercises, showering, and dressing, Paul finds himself eating breakfast at the only restaurant's terrace open in El Formigal during this season. He indeed has a meeting in the early afternoon with his client for a final demo before the official launch of the game's advertising campaign. But that's no reason to leave on an empty stomach and deviate from his sacred rule of morning coffee with milk, a habit he picked up from his French mother.

Paul is finishing his bowl when his phone starts to vibrate. He pulls it out from the back pocket of his pants and glances at the SMS presented on the screen: "good coffee?"

Paul raises an eyebrow in surprise, scans around, and seeing no one, turns his attention back to his mobile to identify the source of the message. But strangely, no number is displayed... He finishes his breakfast, and anxious not to be late, pays the bill without further consideration for the mysterious, albeit trivial, text message.

As he stands up, he suddenly gets dizzy. His head spins and his ears buzz. Feverish, he sits back down, leaning on the table. Paul is used to short, or even sleepless, nights. He knows how to recognize the symptoms and migraines specific to lack of rest, but what he experiences feels nothing like that. A violent pain pierces his skull, and he grasps his hair in his hands. His suffering increases in intensity, eliciting a grimace and a groan from the graphic designer.

In the restaurant, the owner realizes something is wrong and rushes outside.

"¿ Señor Rodriguez?"

Paul writhes in agony.

"¿Eso no va?"

No, it is not okay, not okay at all! Blood begins to flow from Paul's nostrils and ears, who can no longer hear the owner, let alone respond to her. He convulses, and only the chair's armrests keep him in place. He arches violently, one arm stretched towards the sky as a final goodbye to the mountain, then his entire body relaxes, and he slumps in his seat, white foam at the lips.

The owner runs to get help, but it's already too late. Paul Rodriguez is dead.